


You Know That (I Really Love You)

by Zaffie



Category: Blindspot (TV)
Genre: Gen, General Past Of The Team, I Will Not Promise Cupcakes, I'm Not Sure Where This Is Going To Go, I've Only Written One Chapter Okay, Look I'll Consider Updating This With Relevant Tags When The Fic Is Done, Octopi?, Or Octopuses, Snapshots, Tagging Gets Harder With Every Fic, Team Bonding, Zapata/Reade Bonding, cut me some slack, no promises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-10-01 02:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10179119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaffie/pseuds/Zaffie
Summary: Moments in Reade and Zapata's partnership before and leading up to the start of the show. Because these two are awesome.





	1. First Time (Not That Kind)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, Emani *waves* you asked for more, and here it is! Enjoy it :)

He’s tall, Tasha thinks, tipping her head up to look at him. She barely reaches his shoulder, which is embarrassing. She should start wearing heels to work.

     “Hi,” Reade says.

     Tasha says, “Yeah,” and keeps looking. He’s got smooth dark skin, hair buzzed close to his scalp and a stupid looking little moustache. Yuck. Nope. That’s gonna have to go. The rest of his face is fine – there’s something kind of sad and deep in his wide eyes, which Tasha can get behind as long as he doesn’t have to whine about it to her. His lips are pretty. She likes them.

     Reade says, “So…”

     “Nope.”

     “Whaddya mean, nope? I hadn’t even said anything.”

     Tasha shrugs. “Whatever you’re gonna ask, I’m not gonna answer. This?” She moves her hand back and forth, encompassing the two of them. “This isn’t some bonding thing.”

     Reade looks offended. His face telegraphs ‘offended’  well. Big sad eyes, and pouty lips. He seems kind of soft. Also, he’s wearing a suit. An honest-to-god suit with a tie, and an actual vest, and, seriously, who wears a vest? What is he, eighty?

     Then Weller breezes through the room and says, “Oh good, you two met. We’ve got something, come on,” and vanishes into the elevator.

     They’re supposed to follow him, Tasha thinks. She does.

     Pouty Reade comes too.

     Weller doesn’t say anything in the elevator, and Tasha doesn’t want to ask questions. She’s only met this guy a couple of times before; can’t imagine why he requested her for a unit. Isn’t sure why he brought Suit-Guy in on it either. She assumes Weller has some kind of idea – wants to mould them into some team – but she reckons that’s bull.

     “That’s our car,” he says, pointing at a black SUV at the back of the underground parking. “I’m driving.”

     Tasha tries to quicken her pace. It’s hard to keep up with the men when she’s taking two strides for every one of theirs – and, yup, they reach the car first and Reade gets into the front seat. Shit. So Tasha crawls into the back and sits there like a child, which feels just great. She is loving this ‘Kurt Weller’ gig already. The FBI is _awesome_.

     “So,” Reade says. “Where’re we going?”

     “Making an arrest,” Weller tells him. He nods at the glove box. “Got files for you in there. Speed read; see how fast you can catch up.”

     Tasha grabs the headrest of Reade’s seat so that she can lean forward and try to read over his shoulder. He gives her an annoyed look, but doesn’t say anything. The moustache on his lip twitches.

 

     The arrest, in the end, is simple. Weller collars the guy – literally, grabs him by the back of his shirt and hauls him down the front steps to cuff him. There’s a second FBI unit on the way who are supposed to be gathering evidence, and Weller looks at Reade and Zapata and says, “You two can handle executing a search warrant, right?”

     Reade says, “Yes, sir,” immediately, because he’s apparently a suck-up and a teacher’s pet. Tasha narrows her eyes at him.

     She wishes he’d said no, they weren’t capable, because Weller calls in the local cops, packs their criminal into the back of a squad car and leaves. Watching the flashing lights makes Tasha’s chest ache. She looks away.

     So, she and Reade are supposed to be searching the house together, which is fine. They stay out of each other’s way until the other FBI personnel arrive, at which point Tasha finds herself back in the SUV. The passenger seat, this time, which is nice. She’d rather be driving.

     Reade says, “You were a cop, huh?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Why’d you quit?”

     “What’s with the suit?” Tasha asks him, bluntly. “Seriously, a vest? A tie? What’s up?”

     “I like to look nice.” He glances over at Tasha, eyes flicking up and down.

     “Whoa,” she says. “Are you trying to say I don’t look nice?”

     “Uh, no? I didn’t say that.”

     “I mean, have you looked in the mirror lately? What is with that moustache?”

     “It’s… a moustache. What’s the problem?”

     “It looks crappy. You should get rid of it.”

     “That’s rude,” Reade notes.

     “Yeah, well – I’m not here to make friends.”

     “Just here to make judgements on other people’s facial hair?” he suggests.

     Suddenly, Tasha likes him. She feels the grin spread across her face, leans back against her seat and lets it happen. “Okay,” she says. “Smartass.”

     Reade glances over at her – a quick look before his eyes are back on the road – but he sees it. He says, “You’re smiling.”

     “Yeah.”

     “Guess you do like me.”

     She shrugs. “Maybe a little.”

     “I’m a likeable guy.”

     “If you say so.” Tasha sneaks her own sideways look at him. The thick lips are curved up, sad eyes sparkling with some kind of secret humour. He looks good when he’s happy. As good as when he sulks. Tasha thinks she wouldn’t mind being stuck with his face for the next few months. Provided the rest of his skills are up to par.

     Reade says, “My name’s Edgar, by the way.”

     “Awesome,” Tasha says. “I’m never going to call you that.”

     There’s a speed to their words and a rhythm when they talk to each other – line following line, pat pat pat – and Tasha likes it. She likes the fast pace and the sarcasm and the ribbing and retorts. It makes her think they’d have great sex. She considers it.

     Probably not the best idea. She likes his face and his height and the way he speaks, but she doesn’t want him moping after her. Sad brown puppy eyes following her around the office. No thanks. Besides, getting the tension out early would ruin the partnership. At least the background checks wouldn’t turn up any surprises, though. The FBI vets people better than Tasha does.

     Reade pulls to a stop in the underground parking lot and turns to her.  “You wanna go out for a drink?”

     Tasha says, “Yeah. But we’re not fucking.”

     Reade blinks, but that’s the only outward sign of shock. “Okay,” he says. A beat. “…You sure?”

     “Tell you what,” Tasha says. “We can go out for a drink and we can do whatever you want. But I’m gonna offer you a better option than sex. We can be friends.”

     Reade stares at her. “Can’t we do both?”

     “Nope. Trust me, I’ve tried it. Not possible.”

     “You sure?”

     “Positive.”

     “Oh.”

     Tasha says, “Yeah.” She clicks off her seatbelt, slides it back and turns towards Reade. “So, partner. What’s it gonna be?”

     He considers it. “Either way,” he says at last, “I’m gonna call you Tasha.”

     “Whatever. Shave your moustache.”

 

     They go out for drinks. Afterwards they get in separate cabs and go their separate ways.

     Reade comes to work the next morning gloriously moustache-free.


	2. Nice Shot (Partner)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if I'm writing from a character's POV, I'll use the name that they use for themselves - usually a first name. I initially wrote about 1,500 words of this with Reade as 'Edgar' and I just COULD NOT take him seriously. I'm sorry. In my head, he thinks of himself as Reade, because Edgar is a silly name, and 'Eddie' doesn't work for me with there also being a 'Freddy'. 
> 
> Plus, Reade is more fun to say. And write. And it looks better. And no one really cares about me breaking my own rules for internal character dialogue anyway, right?
> 
> Thanks for kudos/comments, you guys!

Reade arrives at work and his desk chair is gone. Which is strange. He knows it’s only been a week, but he’d gotten kind of used to his workspace. Desk, chair, table lamp, too many files in his inbox. And now his chair is gone.

     Zapata, sitting at her own desk, is suspiciously silent. She’s staring at the screen with unusual focus, given how hyperactive she generally is.

     Reade says, “Did you-” and then he cuts himself off, because it seems like a dumb question. This is the FBI. They don’t do stuff that juvenile.

     Except Zapata muffles a giggle and looks up at him and says, “Yeah?” brazenly and Reade realises that maybe they do. At least, maybe _this_ one does.

     He cannot believe he got landed with her as a partner. It’s not even the things other guys would complain about – like, he doesn’t care that she’s tiny, or speaks Spanglish on the phone and when she’s upset, or that she’s a woman. None of that crap is important. But she never knuckles down – she never works _hard_ at anything, and that’s driving Reade insane.

     “My chair,” he says, looking at the empty space where it had been. “It’s gone.”

     “Wow,” she says. “Einstein.”

     Then she looks up at him, and smirks. It’s not even just a mouth smirk, either, it’s her whole damn face smirking. Her eyes shine with the strength of her smirk and Reade can practically hear her saying, _take that, Reade_.    

     God, she annoys the hell out of him.

     He grabs one of the other chairs – it doesn’t have wheels, but Reade thinks he’ll live – and sits down to turn on his computer. They’re supposed to have a quiet day today. All paperwork, no hard cases, just wrapping up everything from the rest of the week.

     Except it never quite goes how it’s _supposed_ to. Weller rings Reade’s mobile and says, tinny through the speakers, “Go get the car. I’ll text you an address.”

     Reade stands up, waves a hand to get Zapata’s attention. “Hey,” he says. “We’ve gotta go. Weller’s gonna text me.” He wags his phone at her.

     She holds out a hand for it. “Here. You can drive. I’ll check the texts.”

     This might be an apology for stealing his desk chair, Reade thinks. Usually Zapata muscles him out of the way to get to the driver’s seat. It annoys him, and she always drives too fast, so it’s nice not to have to fight, for once. Like kids arguing over who gets to sit shotgun – oh, and Zapata fights with him about that, too.

     They get downstairs and into the car and she checks his phone regularly until the text buzzes through and Zapata tells him where they’re going.

     She locks his phone, afterwards, and slips it into the centre console. Reade has no reason to think anything is wrong until hours later, when they’re back at the office, cold and tired. He grabs his phone, goes for the text icon, and sees _mensajes._ What? The little green phone icon next to it says _teléfono_ , which is when Reade realises what’s going on. Shit, she’s changed his phone language to Spanish.

     The iPhone is new, and he’s not entirely sure how to navigate it yet. Certainly not how to change the language. He finds _ajustes_ with the icon for settings, selects it and scrolls through everything, but he doesn’t see any option for languages. Or any Spanish word that sounds like languages.

     He holds down the home button and says, “How do I change the language?” except the words that appear on the screen are unfamiliar – his phone hears Spanish, not English – and then Siri says cheerfully, _¡Hasta luega!_ and vanishes.

     So she’s changed his entire phone. Well, fine. Two can play at this game, Reade thinks. Although he has no idea how he can possibly retaliate, so, maybe they can’t.

 

     They lose a girl out of witness protection on Thursday. She’s seventeen, still just a kid, and she’s supposed to be kept safe before she testifies against Cuevas, her former pimp. He’s in custody, but he knows people – friends in high places, not to mention gangbangers who answer to him.

    Zapata gets into the driver’s seat first, has to scoot the seat _way_ forwards to reach the pedals. She says, “Shit,” and she struggles to move it and Reade feels guilty. This isn’t the time for stupid pranks, but he hadn’t _known_ that the next time they’d get in the car would be for something this important. He’d assumed it would be a routine run, or…

     Weller shoots a glare over into the backseat and Reade cringes. So, clearly his boss knows. Which is embarrassing.

     The last sighting of the girl had been about an hour north, out of the city. They drive up there but Reade has a sinking in his gut which tells him they won’t find her. Not alive. Not after this long. Something twists inside him and makes him feel sick and he swallows, hard, as they get out of the car. It starts to rain.

     Weller says, “Reade, watch our backs,” and he does. He tries to. He keeps up with Weller, but Zapata is so small, and she weaves through the treesinto the fading light of evening, and she disappears.

     Reade thinks it probably doesn’t matter as long as he’s got eyes on the boss. He follows Weller for a little longer, gun up, squinting into the gathering darkness. Rain trickles down his forehead, down his neck and into his collar. Beneath his feet the ground turns into mud, and it soaks into his socks and the cuffs of his sensible black work trousers. Crap. These things are expensive. He thinks about Zapata mocking his suits, feels the rain trickling under his vest…

     Out in the twilight, someone screams. A woman.

     The guilt grabs Reade around the throat and chokes him. He can’t breathe, this is his fault, it’s all his fault, _it’s always his fault…_

     A shot rings out, follows immediately by two more, and then Zapata’s voice. “Over here! Reade!”

     He hears his name and it gets him moving, stumbling forward into a clearing between the trees. Three figures are on the ground; a tall one, prone in the mud, and two more half-sitting. Reade sees Zapata immediately. She’s got the girl in her lap, leaning back against her, and a hand pressed against the teenager’s ribs. Dark liquid leaks over her fingers.

     “You’re gonna be okay,” Zapata is saying, increasingly frantic. “Kate, listen. Hold on. It’s going to be okay.”

     Kate’s head droops, barely conscious. She doesn’t move, but she sobs softly.

     “Zapata,” Reade says. “We’ll get an ambulance.” He turns and yells for Weller, but his boss has suddenly retreated further into the forest.

     Rain is soaking Zapata, but she doesn’t take her hands away from the wound. She’s rocking, softly, shushing the girl in her arms. “Don’t cry,” she says. “Kate, Kate, it’s going to be okay. You’ll be fine, sweetie, don’t cry, it’s okay. I’ve got you, Katie, you’re safe.”

     A dark shape looms behind Zapata; bigger than her, stronger, and with hands outstretched towards her. Reade raises his weapon and fires; _crack, crack._ He thinks the rain might have thrown off his aim, but the guy goes down. Zapata whirls to stare, and then turns back.

     “Thanks,” she says, a little breathless.

     “Yeah,” Reade answers. His voice squeaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “No problem.”

     From behind him, he hears Weller say, “I’ve called a bus.” Reade spins with his gun up before his brain properly registers the voice, and the words, and he can relax.

     “Sorry,” he says.

     Somewhere in the background, he hears Zapata murmuring, “Not much longer, Katie, just stay with me.”

     “I hope you knew that other guy wasn’t me,” Weller says, darkly amused.

     Reade says, “Yup,” and watches Zapata on the ground, leaning over this girl, holding her cheek-to-cheek.

 

     It’s obvious by the time the ambulance comes that Kate isn’t going to make it. She’s already mostly dead; she’s stopped breathing, and her faint pulse pushes the blood steadily from her body.

     “She’ll be okay,” Zapata says stubbornly, watching the ambulance leave.

     “I’m going to stay here and wait for clean-up,” Weller decides, indicating the two bodies. “I want you guys to get back.”

     “No, sir,” Reade says. “We should stay with you.”

     Zapata nods. “Until we see them.”

     So they wait in the rain and the mud until the other ambos arrive, and then, gratefully, they leave Weller to it and head back to the SUV.

     Reade drives. Zapata doesn’t complain. She leans her head against the window, blood and mud all over her, and keeps quiet. Acts like she doesn’t notice the silent tears dripping past her chin.

     She slides out at the carpark and starts walking towards the building. Ignores Reade when he locks the car and jogs after her. Zapata doesn’t say a word inside the elevator, or when he trails her down the hallways and into the locker rooms.

     There’s a guy leaving as Reade enters, and they do the awkward dance side-to-side before they figure out how to avoid one another.

     “Sorry, man,” Reade says.

     The other guy says, “It’s none of my business, but you two should be careful about what you do. Rumours might start to get around, if you catch my drift.”

     Reade frowns. “What?”

     “That is your partner in there, right?”

     “Yeah.”

     The guy just raises his eyebrows meaningfully and walks away.

     Reade sort of gets it once he pushes the door open and moves around the first set of lockers and finds Zapata standing in empty space, clothes pooled on the floor. She’s in plain underwear, black bra and panties, and has a towel around her shoulders, rubbing at her hair. There’s nothing about her which is self-conscious. Reade wonders if she knows he’s here.

     “Hey.”

     She looks up at him, unconcerned. “Yeah.” Goes back to rubbing her hair.

     Reade finds himself taking in her body without quite meaning to. It’s hard not to look when she’s this close to him. Zapata is slim and mostly muscle. Strong thighs and a taut stomach. There’s something about the svelte lines of her body which fascinates Reade. She’s so small next to him, but she’s still the woman he saw kick a man full in the throat during their second day on the job. He’s watched her shoot without blinking and take down a suspect with a high-speed, almost perfect football tackle.

     And then there’s the Tasha who he watched hug a dying girl today, soothe her until she was gone and hold her hand right up until the paramedics closed the ambulance doors.

     It’s disconcerting, to picture both versions inside this person who is so very small.

     Zapata says, “Your vest got muddy.”

     Reade looks down. “Yeah. A little.”

     “Gonna dry-clean it?”

     “Maybe.”

     She snorts. “Waste of money.” Her clothes, wet with rain and blood, get shovelled into a plastic bag. Zapata crosses over to the sink and scrubs the blood from her hands and wrists, splashes water up onto her face.

     “I like my vest,” Reade says. “It’s comfortable. Besides, it looks good.”

     “No it doesn’t.”

     “You’re lying. I can tell.”

     “Bullshit.”

     “I can always tell. I’m special agent Edgar Reade.”

     “Who thought Edgar was a good name?”

     “My mother,” Reade says.

     Zapata looks over her shoulder at him, testing to see if she’s hit a nerve. “What was wrong with your mother?”

     Reade refuses to rise to the bait. “She really liked her granddaddy.”

     “You’re named after him?”

     “Great-granddaddy Edgar.”

     Zapata cracks a smile. “I thought it was because you were such an old man on the inside. With your vests and everything.”

     Reade says, “Nah,” and then, quite suddenly, “Are you okay?”

     “What?”

     “With – Kate.”

     Zapata shrugs. “It’s fine. I tried, right? I did what I could.”

     “Yeah, but… that’s gotta be rough.”

     “It’s not a big deal, Reade.”

     “Tasha-”

     “I thought we talked about this Tasha thing?”

     “We’re partners. I can call you Tasha if I want.”

     “We’re on a team,” Zapata corrects. “We’re technically a threesome.”

     Reade rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say. I only saw me out there today saving your life.”

     She reaches into her locker and finds fresh clothes, tugs a soft black t-shirt over her head and shimmies into a pair of jeans. “Yeah, yeah. You’re a big damn hero, Reade. Is that what you want me to say?”

     “Let’s go out,” Reade says. “Tonight. You shouldn’t be alone.”

     Zapata yanks the zipper of the jeans up and crams her bare feet into her boots. “I’ll be fine. It sounds like you’re the one who needs babysitting.”

     “I’m just worried, Zapata-”

     “And I’m just tired. I’m gonna go home, shower, and sleep. If that’s okay with you, _partner_.”

     Reade sighs. “Stay safe.”

     Zapata brushes past him, shoulder brushing his bicep, and then she’s out of sight. Her voice floats back. “Thanks, Reade. For taking the shot.”

     “Always.”

 

     His desk chair is back in the morning. His phone speaks English again. Someone sticks a post-it note onto his computer. A name; _Alejandro Redondo_ , and an address, and the words, _discount dry-cleaning._

    


	3. Trust Falls (The First Part)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was all, "eh it hasn't even been that long since I've updated this" but actually yeah it's been over a month so. Sorry. I'm lazy and also I've been watching Canadian sci-fi. I... there's really no other excuse. Not that I need an excuse, because this isn't my schoolwork or anything.  
> Hahaha funny story I'm totally a month behind on that as well. 
> 
> Enjoy!

     “Who’s the blond?” Tasha asks as they walk into the elevator.

     Reade glances down at her and cringes. “You saw that, huh?”

     “Yep. I see everything. So? What’s with the blond?”

     “I can date blonds,” Reade protests. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

     “She doesn’t look like your type.”

     “How do you know what my type is? Wait. I don’t even have a type.”

     “Sure you do,” Tasha says, teasing.

     “I don’t,” Reade says. He leans forward to hit a button.

     Tasha knocks his hand away from the elevator controls. “No,” she says, “we’re going to meet the new techie. Remember?”

     A little crease appears between Reade’s eyebrows. “No?”

     “Well, it’s lucky _some_ of us pay attention.”

     “You never pay attention!” he protests. “Never!”

     “Clearly I do,” Tasha says, grinning. She presses the right button and steps back to lean against the elevator wall. “Tell me more about your new girlfriend.”

     “I don’t think I will,” Reade says, folding his arms across his chest.

     “Suit yourself,” Tasha says. “Prude.”

     “Hey, that’s not-”

     The elevator doors ding and open, and Tasha grins to herself as she steps out quickly. “Hurry up, Reade. You’re late.”

     “We got here at the same time!”

     “Yeah, but if I get in there first then you’re the last one,” Tasha says, indicating the door at the end of the hallway. She jogs a few steps, flashing a grin at Reade over her shoulder. Honestly, she’s hoping he’ll race her. It’ll be fun.

     He doesn’t, exactly, but he increases the speed of his walking. Subtly. At least, Reade probably thinks that it’s subtle.

     Tasha laughs and says, “What are you gonna do, race-walk past me?”

     “What’s race-walk?”

     “Oh my god, have you never seen it? Wow, Reade. It’s an Olympic sport, and believe me when I say you’re missing out.” Tasha pushes the door to the lab open with her shoulder and says, “Hi, Weller. Reade’s sorry he’s late.”

     Reade bursts through the door about a foot behind her and says, “I’m _not_ late.”

     Tasha catches her tongue between her teeth to hold in a laugh.

     Weller grunts. He points at the short blond woman standing beside him and says, “Patterson,” which is apparently his version of an introduction. No first name – unless Patterson _is_ her first name – and no more than the bare minimum of words.

     Tasha says, “Hi,” because two can play at that game. Patterson gives a little wave, so Tasha figures that’s good enough.

     Reade is the one who darts forward to shake hands, saying, “Hey, I’m Edgar Reade, nice to meet you,” like he was properly raised, or something.

     “Patterson’s been assigned to us for the next couple of weeks,” Weller explains, “while we track down the members of this cult.”

     Another couple of weeks on this case? Tasha feels exhausted just thinking about it. It’s been ten days already, and they haven’t had a lead – not even a _hint_ of a lead. All their time is spent on computers, trawling through bank statements and CCTV footage with the occasional foray out to search an empty warehouse. So far, it’s been nothing but incredibly boring and frustrating.

     The most annoying part, in Tasha’s opinion, is that they don’t even know what the cult is _doing_. They have evidence of weapons being stockpiled, of forest ranges outside the city being visited – it’s suspicious as hell, of course, but they have no way to prove that the cult is planning to hurt any non-members. For all they know, they could be tracking down and trying to stop some kind of big mass suicide.

     Tasha doesn’t think that’s worth their time, although Reade does. They’ve been arguing about it since the case began; debating whether it’s the FBI’s responsibility to save people from themselves.

     Patterson says, “Oh, by the way, Weller, I’ve got that thing for you to look at.”

     “Fine,” Weller replies. “Reade, Zapata – we’ve got another location for you to go out and check on.”

     Helpfully, Patterson throws the address up on one of the screens. Weller taps it with his knuckle, and Tasha sees Patterson wince.

     Reade says, “But-”

     “We’re on it, boss,” Tasha interrupts. She grabs Reade’s arm and pulls him with her out of the room.

     “What thing is Weller looking at?” Reade asks. “Why aren’t we looped in?”

     “Shut up, Reade. It’s a personal _thing_. Couldn’t you tell from the way he looked?”

     “Uh, no. He always looks the same.”

     “Not true. He makes slightly different faces,” Tasha insists. “Can I drive?”

     “Fine. Whatever.”

    

     “I told you to take a _left_ ,” Reade says, exasperated. “Now where the hell are we?”

     “I thought this was left!”

     “How can this be a left turn when it’s clearly a right turn?”

     “I don’t know!” Tasha snaps. “Stop yelling at me while I’m driving!”

     “Maybe if you drove in the right direction, I wouldn’t have to! Can you turn around?”

     “On this road?” Tasha asks in disbelief. It’s a narrow, dirt-trail with soggy, mud-drenched tussocks of grass lining either side. The rain has only been light for the past half-hour, but it’s already starting to soak the trail. Tasha can feel the tug against the steering wheel in her hands, and she has to fight to keep the car going straight.

     “Okay,” Reade says, “you want me to drive?”

     “No!”

     “Because I can drive.”

     “As if you could turn on this road either,” Tasha says. “We’ll get bogged in the mud, Reade, okay? The road will widen up if we just go a little further.”

     Reade says, “I think it’s getting narrower.”

     “It’s not! What is wrong with you?”

     “I don’t know. I’m a realist? I don’t want to get lost out here? I don’t want to explain to my boss why I got lost out here?”

     Tasha glares over at him and Reade shrugs.

     “Okay,” Tasha says, drawing in a tight breath through her nose. “We’ll just go a little further, and then if there’s nowhere to turn around we’ll-”

     She’s interrupted by a sharp _crack_ , a sound which echoes and rolls over the hills around them. Half a second later something smashes through the front windshield. A web of fissures spreads across the glass and Tasha pumps the brakes automatically, sending them skidding to a halt.

     “Get down!” Reade yells, and his hand is on the back of her neck, forcing her face towards the steering wheel.

     Tasha leans sideways instead, across the centre console, and finds herself next to Reade, who has ducked down in his seat. “What the hell was that?” she asks him.

     He points up at the windshield in response. Tasha raises her eyes and looks across the mess of cracks, tracing the damage to a single central point. There’s a small, clean hole in the glass in front of the driver’s seat. The cracks all fan out from there. A bullet hole. Tasha looks up and around the rest of the car, searching until she finds the bullet lodged in the roof of the car. Her eyes trace the angle of the trajectory. If she’d been an inch taller… shit.

     “Get out,” Reade is saying, pulling Tasha towards him. She scrambles across into the passenger seat somehow. They’re piled together, crammed into the seat, both staying low. Reade yanks on the door handle until it pops open, spilling them both out onto the wet grass of the verge.

     Tasha rolls immediately, to the side of the car. She peeks around the trunk and sees nothing; just the grass of the hill and trees at the bottom.

     “The shot came from the forest,” Reade pants, his big hand coming up to cover Tasha’s shoulder and pulling her back towards him. “Stay out of sight.”

     “We’re at the top of a hill! There is no out of sight, Reade.”

     “We have to take cover,” Reade says.

     Tasha rolls her eyes. “Cover _where?_ ”

     “Okay,” Reade says, “okay.” He closes his eyes and presses his knuckles against the lids. Tasha watches him think.

     “Reade?”

     “There was only one shot,” he says. “Could have been a stray bullet. People hunt out here.”

     Tasha shakes her head. “I don’t think so. What were they shooting at? There’s nothing on this hill but us.”

     He opens his eyes. “Vests and guns are in the trunk.”

     “I’ll get them.” Tasha stretches up a little to pull the back door open. She crawls into the car, staying as low as she can, and reaches her arm up and over the back row of seats. It’s an awkward position.

     A second shot rings out and Tasha jerks back, hearing the third shot even as she topples out of the SUV again and into Reade’s waiting arms.

     “Stay down,” he says.

     “I can get them,” Tasha insists.

     “No. They shoot when they see us in the car.”

     “Only from one side,” Tasha says.    

     “The trees will give us cover,” Reade suggests. “We can’t hide behind the car forever.”

     “Right, but how are we going to get down the hill?” Tasha turns, peering down the slope into the dark trees below them.

     “I guess we run for it,” Reade says.

     Tasha nods, all business. Raindrops cling to her hair and she says, “I guess so.”

     “On three. One.”

     Tasha says, “I’d feel more comfortable with more than just a sidearm.”

     “Three,” Reade finishes, and then he flings himself up from the crouch and starts running down the hill, feet pounding, elbows tight to his sides to hold himself steady. He runs like a football player.

     Tasha follows, slipping on the wet grass. It’s almost impossible to keep her balance and the curve of the hill coupled with the smooth grass increases her speed until it’s practically out of control. Hell, Tasha thinks, if she keeps going at this rate she’s going to fall and probably break her neck.

     The ground starts to level out and Tasha slows down, a little. They’re coming up to the trees and she hears more shots, somewhere behind them.

     Reade gets into the forest, dodging around trees for cover. Tasha tries to catch up with him. She hears another shot-

     -her feet slide out from under her and she falls forward and for a second she wonders if she’s been shot-

     -something scrapes along her side and then she hits the ground so hard that her teeth rattle.

     Reade yells, “Tasha!”

     It takes her a moment to get her bearings. She’s not actually on the ground; she’s sprawled half across a fallen log, and she thinks that’s okay, because her head hadn’t hit anything. No unconsciousness, so that’s good, but there’s a warmth along her side that feels bad.

     The pain blossoms sharply and suddenly and Tasha bites down on her lip, hard, to keep from crying out.

     “Are you okay?” Reade is kneeling beside her, his hand on her arm, but Tasha can’t speak. The pain is too… everything. She bows her head and lets it all wash over her and after a moment or two, the agony ebbs.

     “Hit something,” she rasps. She sucks in a deep breath; prepares to move. It hurts as much as she’d thought it would when she rolls to the side along the log and slithers down to sit on the wet ground.

     There’s a great big _stick_ poking up out of the tree trunk and Tasha thinks she’s gone and _fallen_ on it, Jesus Christ, no wonder it hurts. The warmth along her side is turning into a warm wetness that she knows all too well and she puts two fingers up her shirt to touch at the worst of the pain and draws them out bloody.

     Reade whistles through his teeth. “What’d you do?”

     “I don’t know,” Tasha says.

     “Let me take a look at it.”

     “We have to keep moving-”

     “Okay, you’re right.” Reade uses his hand on her arm to pull her up to her feet and Tasha winces at the burn in her side.

     “It’s not good,” she admits.

     “Let’s just get a little further into the trees,” Reade says. “We’ll find somewhere sheltered and we’ll stop and see what’s happened, okay?”

     “Yeah,” Tasha says, panting through the pain. Rain drips from her eyelashes when she blinks. “Okay.”

     Reade says, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”


	4. Trust Falls (The Second Part)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, you guys! It's been ages, but I've got some more free time now. More to follow!
> 
> Thanks, if you're still reading/leaving kudos/commenting. You are all superior beings!

     They stop by a cluster of bushes, sheltered by the wet green leaves. Zapata lowers herself gingerly, sits on a mossy rock. “You can look,” she says to Reade, gesturing at her side.

     There’s no sound from behind them. Reade wonders where their pursuers have gone – if anyone’s still chasing them. He checks his phone and isn’t surprised when he doesn’t have a signal.

     “We shouldn’t have left the car,” he says to Zapata, going down on his knees in the grass. Water soaks through his pants immediately.

     “Too late now,” Zapata says. She winces when Reade lifts her shirt up, and turns her face away.

     He sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth when he sees the wound. The stick had gouged straight through her skin, and it’s torn and bleeding. It’s shallow near her hip and gets deeper as it trails up her side. The blood is congealing thickly on the lower part of the cut and still flowing sluggishly from the top.

     “Tasha,” Reade says.

     “Don’t tell me how bad it is,” she says quickly. “I don’t want to know.” She’s still got her face twisted away.

     “You can’t ignore this and make it go away.”

     “Sure I can,” Zapata retorts. “I do that all the time.”

     Reade pushes the shirt up a little higher. “It’s deep up here,” he says. “The bleeding hasn’t stopped.”

     “Unless you have a band-aid or something, there’s not much we can do,” Zapata says. “You see any internal organs?”

     “…No.”

     “Then I’ll be fine.” Zapata tries to push her shirt down.

     Reade, equally stubborn, pushes it back up. “You should at least wash it out,” he says. “It’ll get infected.”

     “Wash it with what? Idiot.”

     “It goes up past your bra. I think it’s deep under there.”

     “I don’t think the stick went through my bra.” Zapata sighs out through her nose, impatient and frustrated. “It was just a _stick_ , Reade, god. It’s not a mortal injury!”

     “People have died from sticks.” He drops the shirt, slides it slowly back down into place and pretends he doesn’t see Zapata wincing.

     “Oh yeah? Who? When?”

     Reade ignores her, because she’s just being confrontational for the sake of it. He says, “We should start moving. Try and find the road, and flag someone down to help us, yeah?”

    “Yeah.” Zapata levers herself to her feet. She puts her arm around Reade’s middle automatically; like she expects him to be there, to hold her up.

     He wraps his own arm around her back, under one of her shoulders. His hand bites into the fleshy part between her chest and her shoulder and it’s close to being inappropriate but it’s the only place Reade can get a good grip.

     Still, he asks, “Is this okay?”

     Zapata looks down at his hand like she hadn’t even noticed it. “Sure.”

     “Which way do you think we should be going?”

     “Straight,” Zapata says.

     “And after that?”

     “Just keep going straight.”

     They move through the forest in silence, both unsteady on their feet. Reade is holding up some of Zapata’s weight and she’s walking stiffly, the gash up her side obviously bothering her.

     “Do you hear anything?” he asks.

     “Only you, talking.” Her voice is tight with pain.

     “I meant behind us. Any people?”

     “Nope.”

     “Me neither,” Reade says. It doesn’t exactly make him feel comforted.

     They keep walking – staggering, whatever. Rain runs into Reade’s collar, drips from his eyelashes every time he blinks, and trickles uncomfortably under his nose and over his mouth. Zapata’s hair is wet and stringy and stung to her skin. She gets a little heavier as they walk on, and her limp becomes more pronounced.

     “Are you okay?” Reade asks.

     “I think I pulled a muscle. My knee hurts.”

     “Can I-”

     “No.”

     The rain stops minutes later. Zapata shakes her head like a dog, spraying the water everywhere. Reade wipes his sleeve over his face, shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably in the wet clothes, clinging to him like a second skin. And he’s ruined another suit, probably, with all this water. He’s going to have to start bringing spare clothes to work; specific clothes for leaving the safety of the office and risking getting covered in mud, blood or water.

     Not long afterwards is when they hear voices.

     Zapata catches it first, grabbing at Reade’s arm, pulling him to a wavering, off-balance stop. He hears the voices a little later, just as he’s opening his mouth to ask her what’s wrong.

     Men, it sounds like. Two or more. Reade can’t make out any words, but the sounds tell him that they’re angry. He twists his head from side to side, holding Zapata tight against him, searching for a place to hide.

     Zapata jogs her elbow against his ribs. Points, when he looks at her – points up. The trees? They’re all pines and oaks around here, and Reade can’t see any with low branches. Zapata starts moving, though, and he looks past her and sees a huge, gnarly trunk with branches spreading out a little over Reade’s head.

     It’s high, but he hurries towards it with Zapata, half his mind on the voices behind them. Getting closer, but slowly. Reade pauses beneath the tree. He looks up, fixes the position of the branch in his mind, and then he ducks down a little and wraps his hands around Zapata’s waist. She hisses as her clothing rubs against the scratch, but it’s quiet. An unobtrusive sound.

     She looks small underneath Reade’s hands. Doesn’t feel small as he hoists her upwards. She’s lithe and quick, though, grabs hold of the branch and muscles her way on top with a grunt of effort. Reade notices her left leg dangling uselessly as she climbs, and decides that he will look at her knee. Sooner, rather than later.

     Zapata straddles the branch and leans down as far as she can, holding out both hands to Reade. He takes a second to glance over his shoulder and then he stretches up, on his toes, grabbing her hands. She strains to hold his weight, and Reade gets his feet against the tree trunk, pushing up higher. Zapata gets pulled down against the branch, her cheek pressed into the bark, but she doesn’t let go of Reade.

     He gets one arm over the branch and after that it’s easy to pull himself the rest of the way up. They’re not high enough yet, but it’s the first step. Zapata is already standing, balancing easily, reaching for the next branch.

     It’s like a ladder after that, and Reade climbs with her, higher and higher until the branches sway beneath him and he’s worried they’ll crack and send him plummeting to the ground.

     And then Reade hears, “It doesn’t matter where they’re from, Pete. We’ve got their car. They won’t be going anywhere.”

     “Of course it matters,” another man snaps. He’s the one whose angry tones Reade had been able to distinguish earlier. He sounds livid, a snarl in his voice. “We need to know who’s onto us.”

     “Just cops,” the first man says. “That’s all. Cops are nothing. We’ll find them easy.”

     “When have you seen cops driving an SUV like that? All black? It’s the FBI,” the man called Pete insists. “I told Colin it was the FBI.”

     “You can’t prove that.”

     “Can’t I? Why don’t we look in the car and see what we find?”

     The first man sounds shocked. “We couldn’t look inside. That’s _not allowed._ ”

     “I’m going to drive it,” Pete says. “I’m taking the car to Colin and he’s going to look inside. Are you coming or not?”

     “Not. You’re crazy.”

     “Yeah, well, fuck you.”

     There’s no more talking, just crashing footsteps. Reade shifts his position in the tree a little, peers out between the leaves which are shielding him. He sees one of the men – no way to tell which one it is – stomping across the ground beneath them, huddled deep into a waterproof jacket. He stops at the base of the tree Reade and Zapata had chosen.

     Geez, he’s close, Reade thinks. He’s got a rifle slung over his shoulder, too, and they’re practically sitting ducks up here.

     The heavy footsteps of the second man gradually die away. The one beneath their tree looks around furtively, then fishes a pack of cigarettes out from one pocket and a lighter from the other. He sparks up, takes a long draw in and then lets a satisfied breath out.

     Smoke drifts up and stings in Reade’s nostrils. He swallows a cough. They wait in the tree, motionless and silent, while the guy smokes and takes in the wet, dripping world around him.

     Finally, the man takes one final drag and drops the cigarette on the ground, grinding it into pulp with the heel of his boot. He clears his throat, hitches his coat higher up his shoulders, and strides away.

     Reade waits until the sounds of his feet on the wet leaves have faded into the distance, and then he looks up at Zapata, perched slightly higher than him. “So?” he says. “What do you want to do?”

     “Get down from here, for starters,” she says. “I’m slipping.”

     They scrape and bang and bruise their way down the tree. Reade pauses on the last branch, his eyes measuring the drop to the ground. “Let me go first,” he says.

     “And you’ll do what? Catch me?” Zapata snorts.

     “I will.”

     “Sure,” she says. And jumps.

     Reade sees the tension in the way she lands; off-balance, not quite right – and then she falls, silently, just crumples to the ground and presses her fist to her mouth. It doesn’t absolutely muffle the sharp intake of breath or the whimper.

     “Zapata?” He’s trying to keep his voice low, but fear makes him louder. He jumps, lands to Zapata’s left and crawls over towards her.

     She’s got her teeth sunken into the flesh of her hand, biting down so that she doesn’t make a sound. Hunched over the way she is, Reade can’t tell what’s wrong.

     “Knee?” he guesses, and gets a nod. “Which one? The left?” Another nod. “Roll onto your side,” Reade says, pushing at her shoulder. Gently, gently. “Go on, Zapata, roll.”

     She rolls. Her left leg comes out, bent up by her side, and Zapata rolls onto her back with her fist still tight up against her mouth. Her head tips back with pain and her eyes are squeezed shut.

     And her left kneecap is some two inches to the side of where it’s supposed to be.

     “Shit,” Reade says.

     Zapata nods her head, her arm moving where she’s biting down.

     “It’s dislocated,” Reade says. “I’ve seen this before, okay? Playing football. I think I know how to fix it.”

     She’s got to be in a lot of pain, because she doesn’t even open her eyes to glare at him. She barely even moves to acknowledge his words, just tenses up. Reade can see the muscles in her neck straining.

     “I’ve got this,” he says, which is mostly a pep talk for himself. There’s no way he’s going to be able to roll up her trousers like this. Still, it’s easy enough to see what the problem is. Her knee is already starting to swell.

     One hand against the displaced kneecap. God, it feels weird. Reade grits his teeth against the need to squirm away. This isn’t the time to be squeamish, and he’s seen worse than this. He gets his other hand under her calf, digging his fingers in. Slowly, he starts to pull her leg straight while his other hand pushes the kneecap back towards the right place. Zapata shivers as he starts to move it. A shudder that runs right through her, into Reade, so that he feels what she feels.

     A little more, he thinks, repeats it in his head like a mantra. A little more, a little more, a little-

     - _click._

     It’s a sharp, nasty sound, and the jump of the kneecap under Reade’s hand is even worse. He recoils, jerks his hand away, and Zapata’s back arches up off the ground with the pain and she’s digging her fingers into the dirt and biting down on her wrist so hard that she’s gonna leave marks.

     A second passes. One, two. Zapata’s body relaxes and sinks down to the forest floor.

     “Are you okay?” Reade asks. Whispers, really. They’ve been too loud, and they should get out of here. “Can you walk?”

     Her eyes flicker open, dull brown and shining with unshed tears. She opens her mouth, pulls her arm out. There are teethmarks in the skin of her hand and wrist, deep ones, surrounded by bloodless white flesh. Zapata licks her lips, says, “I don’t know,” in a voice that’s husky with pain.

     “Well, you can try, right?”

     “Yeah,” she rasps. “Yeah, I can try.”

     She can’t walk. Her knee won’t straighten and it buckles under her. It falls to Reade to get his partner moving, and that’s hard, too. He can’t get a good grip on her. Tries with his arms wrapped around her chest, under her arms, swinging her forward one step at a time. It’s too slow, and it jars Zapata’s knee, and she’s struggling.

     “I can carry you,” he says, holding both arms out.

     “And be completely useless in a fight? No way.”

     They compromise, and Zapata crawls onto Reade’s back, wraps her arms and her good leg around him, clinging on like a squirrel. He draws his weapon and holds it steady as they inch through the forest.

     Zapata’s trying hard, but her forearms keep slipping across his throat, cutting down his air supply. Reade can see the marks where she bit herself, angry red lines on her skin. He’s exhausted from walking with the extra weight, choking with Zapata’s arms around his neck and cold in his damp clothes. It’s a relief when he spots a thick green cluster of bushes and thinks, good. That’s somewhere we can hide. Wait until dark and then make a run for the road.

     Only, what road? Reade has no idea where they are, where they’re going or how they’ll get there.

     It doesn’t matter. He struggles to the bushes, bends his knees for Zapata to slide down off his back. She lands on her good leg and says, “What?”

     “The bushes,” Reade says.

     “You want to hide in bushes?” There’s scorn in her tone, a curl to her lip which isn’t hiding the pain in her eyes.

     Reade refuses to rise to the bait. “Yes,” he says, calm and deliberate. “Don’t you?”

     Zapata sighs. “Yeah.”

     “Crawl in.”

     She crawls in. He follows.


	5. Trust Falls (The Third Part)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damnit I was sure there were going to be three of these but actually there are gonna be four. I'm sorry. Also, I'd love to say that it won't be as long until the next one but, look. I always just lie when I say that. 
> 
> Thanks for comments/kudos, you're the coolest people ever, and today I hope you get an invitation to a laser tag party, because you DESERVE ONE.

     Tasha says, “This is shit.”

     “It’s not that bad,” Reade protests. Always the optimist.

     “No, this.” Tasha glares down at the mess in the leaves beside her. “It’s actual poop.” She uses a leaf to move it further away from her hand. “That’s disgusting. What’s living in here?”

     “Fox, I think,” Reade says, leaning past her to get a good look; way into her personal space. “Huh. That’s kinda cool.”

     “It’s not cool!”

     “Maybe a dog,” he continues. “A smallish sort of a dog.”

     “Shut up,” Tasha says. She checks the leaves behind her for more poop, lies down when she doesn’t find any. God, her knee hurts. It’s not as bad now – she can move it, at least – and that deep cold pain has gone. But the muscles twitch and spasm and she’s not sure how fast she’ll be able to run.

     Reade drops onto his back beside her, blows out a breath. “How long are we going to wait?”

     “Until dark,” she says, firmly. “Then you can go-”

     “Oh, no way. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

     “Reade, I can barely walk.”

     “Not happening,” he says, stubborn. He presses his lips together and shakes his head.

     Tasha turns her upper body sideways to stare at him. He’s an idiot, she thinks, over-emotional and taking this partner thing _way_ too seriously. “I’ll just hide here in these nice shitty bushes,” she says. “It’ll be fine.”

     “You swear too much.”

     “In two languages, as well,” Tasha agrees. “My _abuela_ would be so mad at me. Lucky I’m an adult who can make her own decisions.” She makes her voice deliberately sarcastic, is gratified when Reade chokes on a laugh.

     “You sure can,” he says.

     They fall silent for a while, lying back on the wet leaves. Tasha watches the bush above her head rustling in the wind.  It’s cold, and she shifts a little closer to Reade, trying to be subtle. He’s bigger than her, warmer than her, but she doesn’t want him to think-

     “Trying to cuddle, Zapata?”

     Fuck. “No,” she says.

     “Yes, you are.”

     “Shut up.”

     “It’s okay. We can cuddle.”

     “I don’t want to cuddle.”

     Reade lifts one burly arm from his side, spreads it out above Tasha’s head. Looks down at the space between his arm and his chest and grins at her. “Come on.”

     “No.”

     “It’s an invitation!”

     “No, I don’t want to cuddle. I’m just cold, okay? It’s really cold.”

     “Suit yourself.”

     There’s silence again. Tasha knows Reade wouldn’t be talking if he was here with Weller. They’d just be manly and quiet. Actually, Tasha doesn’t think she’d talk to Weller, either. He doesn’t exactly make himself feel warm and open and welcome to conversation. He’s a good agent, though. A good boss.

     Tasha doesn’t know what it is about Reade that makes her talk so much. Or mess with him so much. They dig at each other, little jabs in their words, and even their actions. She’d stolen his desk chair. That’s _serious_. That’s something that Reade brings out in her, when she’s perfectly capable of being calm and sensible with everyone – _anyone_ else.

     This doesn’t feel very FBI-agent-like. Hiding in the bushes? With just a sidearm? It’s pissing Tasha off.

     “You’re absolutely going without me,” she tells Reade, just because she feels like arguing.

     “Not a chance in hell.”

     “I’ll just slow you down. If you get to the road you can flag down a car or find a cell signal and call for help, or something.”

     “And then what? Say, ‘oh by the way, I left my partner in some random bushes somewhere, hope she’s still alive’?”

     “I’ll be fine. I’ve got the shitty bushes and my gun,” Tasha says, with a bravado she doesn’t feel.

     To her annoyance, she gets the feeling that he sees right through her. That irritates Tasha, too. She’s always good at hiding her emotions; shielding what she really feels from prying eyes. She throws up wall after wall of anger or sarcasm or coldness that nobody bothers to penetrate. People are easy to push away. Tasha’s good at it.

     Reade’s starting to prove frustratingly resilient.

     “When we get back,” he says, and there’s that optimism again, “I’m having a beer.” He looks down at Tasha out of the corners of his eyes. “You should come have a beer with me.”

     “I told you, I’m not about the team bonding.”

     “Beer is beer, not bonding.” Reade turns his face back upwards, towards the wet green leaves and the cloudy grey sky. “I think I’ll have a pizza as well.”

     Thinking about pizza makes Tasha hungry. She shifts a little, uncomfortable, and has to bite her lip when pain twinges through her knee. Wow, it hurts. How long is this going to put her out of commission? Tasha hates resting – hates physiotherapy even more, or, just any therapy, really. She doesn’t like people trying to fix her, body or mind. Or trying to _understand_ her, which feels somehow worse.

     Tasha has a sneaking suspicion that maybe Reade is starting to understand her. It weirds her out more than a little, makes her want to spend less time with him, but here they are. Stuck next to each other in the bushes.

     And the sun goes down damn slowly.

     It does eventually start to get darker. Colder, too, and nothing’s really drying out much with the sun hidden behind the clouds. Tasha curls her arms into her chest for warmth. She gives in when she starts to shiver, and rolls into Reade’s side.

     “Not a word,” she says.

     “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

     The forest is quiet around them. Eerily quiet. Tasha hates it. She’s used to the noise of the city at night, bleeding through the thin walls of her bedroom and lulling her to sleep. The sounds of people and traffic and activity – it reminds Tasha that there’s a world out there, still turning.

     Something goes _oo-huu_ in the darkness and Tasha jumps, grabs at Reade’s arm.

     “What was that?” she hisses.

     “An owl,” he says. “Don’t worry, Zapata. I won’t let it hurt you.”

     “Shut up,” she grumbles. Taps her hand against his chest. “You should get ready to go.”

     “Okay. You should get ready to come with me.”

     Tasha sighs. “I’ll slow you down.”

     “I don’t care.”

     “My knee is totally screwed, Reade.”

     There’s a pause, a hesitation in which Tasha knows he’s going to say something she won’t like.

     “…I would have caught you, you know.”

     She sighs, rolls her eyes even though he probably can’t see her in the growing darkness. “It doesn’t matter, okay? I jumped, I got hurt. It’s fine.”

     “You don’t trust me.” He sounds hurt. Tasha can picture the pout.

     “That’s not true. I trust you to have my back.”

     “So why did you jump, Tasha?”

     “I don’t know! I’m independent.”

     “That’s not the point of a partnership.” Reade sits up, pulling Tasha with him, her head on his shoulder. “Come on.”

     “What?”

     “Let’s go. I’ll help you, I swear.”

     Tasha gets to her feet, stands awkwardly on her right leg with the left one bent up a little. Gingerly, she puts weight on it. There’s pain, but it doesn’t buckle. Not quite. She can hobble. Still, she won’t want to be running, or kicking, or doing anything active. No fighting.

     Her hand drops to the grip of her gun. She won’t let anyone get close enough for it to turn into a fight.

     Reade is the one who chooses a direction, and Tasha lets him. He seems more comfortable in this environment than she is. He knows what the sounds are, for a start, and can tell Tasha that they’re travelling west without too much trouble.

     His night vision is crap. Tasha finds herself having to pull him away from trees, warn him about roots that curl up out of the ground and try to trip him.

     So they have to rely on each other. They have complementing skills. Like _partners._ It’s not a big deal, Tasha thinks sullenly. She could still handle this by herself. It’s not like she needs Reade – like she couldn’t do without him – because she doesn’t rely on people like that. Not ever. She’d grown up with a family that was totally fucked up, tore itself apart when Tasha was still a kid and she’d tried to pick up the pieces but it hadn’t ever worked. She’d learnt how to be alone.

     There’s a sound in front of them. Tasha grabs Reade’s arm and pulls him back, breathing, “Wait.” Light flickers through the trees and stabs into her eyes.

     Reade’s arm moves under her hand as he slides his gun loose of the holster. Tasha moves to do the same thing, the rough grip familiar and comforting under her fingers. She steps forward first, slowly. Reade’s hand comes down on her shoulder as he follows.

     Suddenly he’s a lot less annoying. Like this, tense and alert, creeping towards a possible ambush, Tasha knows his every move. She knows how Reade goes into firefights, she knows how he shoots and she knows where he’ll be – a step behind her, on her right hip, watching their backs. She doesn’t have to wonder what he’s thinking because she _knows._    

     The light is a fire; that’s why it’s flickering strangely. A bonfire in a gap between trees, with people and boxes gathered around it, moving like black shadows in front of the flame. Tasha and Reade pause at the edge of the light, waiting for their eyes to adjust.

     She wants to know what’s in the crates. That’s why they’ve been checking up on this cult the whole time, after all. Trying to figure out what’s going on with them. If she was alone, if her knee was good, Tasha thinks she’d creep closer. Risk her own safety to get a better look.

     Reade’s hand squeezes on her shoulder and he gives a little tug, steering her away, around the edge of the circle of light. Staying out of view. Playing it safe.

     When they’re probably far enough away not to be overheard, Tasha says, “What do you think was in the crates?” She keeps her voice low, but she can’t even see the light anymore when she looks over her shoulder.

     “I didn’t see.”

     “I wish we’d gotten a proper look.” Tasha limps forward a little further, stows her gun back in the holster, opens her mouth to say-

     Someone coughs behind a tree. Low, rasping. Reade stops walking immediately, his feet skidding on the leaves. Tasha grabs for her gun again, cursing, wishing she hadn’t put it away.

     A deep voice from in front of them says, “Who’s there?”

     Reade raises his gun and a shot comes from _behind_ and Tasha whirls, pulling her gun up and shooting, once, twice. She has no idea if she’s hit anything, fired purely from the sound. She can’t see a thing beyond the trees closest to her, the full moon slipping in and out between clouds and giving the forest a silvery glow.

     There’s a grunt and Tasha turns again, narrows her eyes until she sees Reade on the ground with a guy on top of him. The guy’s fist comes up and there’s an ugly dull thud of knuckles against flesh. It’s too dark for Tasha to see which limbs belong to which body, whose torso is where. Her gun is up but there’s nothing to aim at.

     She spins the gun around in her hand, holding the barrel. Takes four clumsy, painful steps, and launches herself at the closest shape. Hits a warm body and smacks her head against a shoulder – ow, _fuck_ – and lifts her gun, bringing it down over and over like a very expensive club. The guy scrambles sideways, trying to get away from her, and Tasha follows. She has to keep him away from Reade, that’s all she knows. She didn’t see when her partner went down – he could have been shot, could be bleeding out behind her – she smashes the handle of the gun down against the guy’s face and feels something give under the pressure. Tasha can’t tell if it’s the gun or the face that’s broken.

     Her collar is tugged and Tasha turns, trying to spin the gun again, ready to shoot.

     Reade says, “Tasha,” and hauls her to her feet.

     “Are you okay?” she asks.

     He’s already pushing her along, away from the guy, curled on the ground and moaning in pain. “Move, Tasha, we’ve got to get out of here. They definitely heard that.”

     It’s only been a minute or so, Tasha thinks. How long will it take the people from the bonfire to get here? Not long. She increases her speed, running with an awkward, lurching stride as she tries to keep pressure off her bad knee.

     “Are you okay?” she repeats, panting.

     “I’m fine. I went to look for the shooter and that guy grabbed me from behind,” Reade says. “He kept hitting me in the chest. No idea what difference he thought that would make. Hurts, though. I’ll have bruises.” He sounds offended.

     “So will he,” Tasha says viciously. Serves him right, for hitting her partner – _her_ partner…

     She can’t think like that. Reade’s not hers, he’s just Reade. She concentrates on the sharp pain in her knee instead, on the stinging of the scratch down her side. Her whole body aches and she just wants to get out of this forest, get back to civilisation, with lights and noise and no creepy armed cult members stalking her through the dark.

     Reade’s been pulling her along with a hand fisted into the sleeve of her shirt, but now he runs his hand down her arm until he finds her fingers and laces his own through them. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”


	6. Trust Falls (The Fourth Part)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to mess with everybody, here's another chapter! Booyah. I can be speedy. Yeah. ;)

    Zapata opens her door practically before Reade’s knocked on it. His knuckles have only just touched the wood when it’s swinging open, like she was expecting company.

     She doesn’t look surprised that it’s Reade, either. “Yeah?”

     “I brought beer,” he says, holding up the six-pack.

     Zapata’s dark eyes are unreadable, her face blank and unfriendly. For a second, Reade thinks she’s going to turn him around and march him back down the stairs, send him home and remind him that she _doesn’t do team bonding, Reade._

     She jerks her head at him, an invitation across the threshold. “I’ll order pizza,” she says.

     Reade steps inside Zapata’s place for the first time and it’s actually a pretty low-key moment. She slams the door shut behind him and turns around, grabbing her cell phone from her back pocket. There’s nothing that she says – no _make yourself at home_ or _have a seat_ but there’s a very casual feeling to the whole thing. Casual enough that Reade feels comfortable heading over to the fridge and putting the beer inside.

     “How’s the knee?” he asks.

     Zapata shushes him. “I’m on the _phone_. You want pepperoni?”

     “Of course.”

     While she’s busy, Reade takes the chance to check out the rest of the room. It’s kind of plain, but there’s something very Zapata about the grey walls and the bland furniture. There are clothes tossed everywhere and bowls on the coffee table. Papers are scattered on the kitchen counter and there’s a tablet on the floor. Reade bends to pick that one up, glances over his shoulder at Zapata.

     She rolls her eyes and flaps a hand at him, phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder. Reade takes that as permission to venture further into the house, leaving the tablet on the dining table as he passes and exploring down the hallway.

     He opens a door – that’s a bathroom – and a second door which is some sort of a study-cross-home-gym, because there’s a bunch of weird stuff in there. Desk, chair, computer, printer… and a gym ball, handheld weights and a punch bag shaped like a man’s torso.

     Reade backs out of that room and opens the third door.

     Zapata grabs his arm just above the elbow. “Uh-uh,” she says. “That’s my room, I’m not having you in there judging.”

     “What do you mean, judging?” Reade protests. He allows himself to be pulled away from the room and watches as Zapata tosses the tablet inside – actually tosses it – and closes the door.

     “I can see you judging,” Zapata says. “You think I’m too messy.”

     “Well… yeah, actually,” Reade admits. “And I’m going to be telling Patterson about the way you treat your electronic devices.”

     “If she sticks around.”

     Reade shrugs. “I have a feeling she’ll be sticking around. When’s pizza coming?”

     “I dunno, Reade. Whenever they deliver it.” Zapata leads the way back down the hallway, her walk a little unsteady with the knee brace changing her gait.

     Reade looks down at it. “How’s that feeling?”

     “Absolutely great. I went to see my doctor yesterday, and he said, ‘Wow, Tasha Zapata, you are so totally ready to get back to active duty.’”

     “He didn’t.”

     “No, he did.” She frowns. “I can’t believe I missed all the cult clean-up. You guys got to bust them without me.”

     “It wasn’t that exciting,” Reade assures her.

     “Uh-huh. That’s not what Patterson’s been telling me.”

     “You’re getting your info from Patterson now?” Reade puts a hand over his heart. “I’m wounded, Zapata. I thought I was your inside man.”

     “Patterson’s not a big liar. _It wasn’t that exciting,_ ” Zapata scoffs, and leads them back into the TV room, throwing herself down on the sofa. “You wanna watch the game?”

     “Sure,” Reade says. He hesitates, suddenly unsure if he’s overstepping his bounds. “If it’s okay for me to stay?”

     Zapata glances up at him, frowning like he’s said something extremely stupid. “What, you think they’ll deliver half the pizza to me and half to your apartment? Grow up, Reade.”

     “No, I just meant-”

     “Do you want pizza or not?” And she’s got the remote in her hand, her bad leg resting on the coffee table, sprawled across one half of the sofa and watching him quizzically.

     Reade drops onto the empty end of the couch. “I want pizza.” He’s sitting on something hard. He squirms an arm beneath himself, into the space between couch cushions, and comes out with a stiletto heel.

     “Oh, awesome,” Zapata says. “Wow, I’ve been looking for that for, like, weeks. How’d it get there?”

     “No idea,” Reade says, and he looks pointedly around the room. There’s a button-down shirt on the arm of the sofa next to him. It’s kind of filthy – actually, he thinks it might have legitimate _blood_ on it. “Where do you do laundry?”

     “Was that a really unsubtle hint? Like, I should do more laundry?”

     “I just didn’t see a washing machine.”

     “When you were poking around my place? Maybe I do all my washing in the tub, did you think of that?”

     Reade laughs. “What are we watching?”

     “You like football, right?”

     “I used to play,” Reade says, with a spark of pride. He’d been good, too, real good. He sort of regrets quitting, when he looks back at it. Doesn’t even really remember why he had.

     “Awesome,” Zapata says. “Football, pizza and beer. That’s the dream.”

     “And good company,” Reade adds, a little slyly. He looks sideways at her and grins to himself when he sees her stiffen, the tips of her ears going red.

     “Yeah,” Zapata mutters. “Whatever.” She glares at the TV.

     But Reade waits, still watching her. The scowl fades from her face. A minute passes. The corners of Zapata’s lips turn up, just slightly.

     It’s not much, Reade thinks, but it’s a good start.  


End file.
